Hot Pants
 

An ENE Review of the enovel
by Sydney Leigh

 

Reviewed by G. Russell
 
Hot Pants is a wonderfully earthy collection of obscene stories, ribald, unabashed, as unseemly as an incorrigible relative who gooses all the bridesmaids at the wedding. Collected herein; rigorous and arousing tales that shudder with up-close detail in a style that makes for a wickedly horny read. Sydney Leigh writes with the natural panache of an eroticist who knows exactly how and when to press the reader's hot buttons and then goes out hell for leather with the intention of pressing them all. The writer, bless his/her perverted little socks, damned well succeeded as far as yours' truly jaded here is concerned.
 
A fellow writer acquaintance of mine once opined that you know you're reading erotica if you take the sex out of the story and the story falls apart - that's erotica. And Hot Pants is a perfect illustration of this. The narrative and the sex scenes are so perfectly and passionately entwined that any attempt to separate the two-God forbid- would render the pages meaningless.
 
Most of the templates of sexual fantasy are lovingly etched here for the delectation of the reader. Some light BDSM, lesbian seduction, Menage a tois, sex in elevators and sex in the classroom with teacher. The plots, as befitting the noble parameters of hardcore erotica, are secondary vehicles that power the sex scenes at some times breakneck speeds.
 
Allow me to give you a ride and show you how Sydney delivers the goods:
 

"Now, Miss Slavko," he spoke soothingly, gently spreading the cheeks of her alluring, heart-shaped little bottom to reveal the small, tight opening, pink rimmed and virginal, nestled in the depths of its cleft, "just relax and let it happen."

 

He took hold her waist and with a quick, forceful thrust of his tool, well slicked with her saliva, slid its head past her reflexively contracting sphincter, sinking it full length into her. She gasped loudly in response to this blitz-like occupation, but thrust her hips back against is abdomen and tightened the walls of her anal canal around his invading shaft by way of signifying her willingness to take as much as he had to give her.

 

He set a gentle in out pace at first, but as she became more and more relaxed and open, he picked it up and was soon rutting away abut the same energy he would have brought to conventional intercourse. If his partner's response was anything to judge by, she was enjoying it as much, if not more, than he was.
 
There's not a trace of embarrassment or coyness about these extreme tales but at the same time, the writer manages to get across the incredible complexity of sexual sensations without making it read like cheap pornography.
 
Threaded through these bawdy tales are often to be found wry observations, one of my favourites, from The Weakest Link:
 
With dress code relaxed, Yvette had worn a pair of tight black jeans. These had elicited from Pia, who possessed a rather ravishing little rump in her own right, a playful caress, followed by an admiring comment on the shapeliness of Yvette's booty. Along with the information that the universally accepted symbol of love, the heart, was in fact a representation of female hind quarters in the present position. "Checking yours out, Yvie, I think I see where those cavemen were coming from."
 
This is an unrestrained collection of erotic shorts, stroke stories if you want to call them that, and a fine collection it is too. Stories that would have made Caligula blush. Liberating and taboo, woven into a delightful feast to satisfy the most jaded reader's sexual appetites.
 
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go and take a cold shower, or go call up my lady, light some candles, dim the lights, put on some cool Dexter Gordon, and turn back the bed-sheets.
 
 
Hot Pants by Sydney Leigh is published by Amatory Ink
 
Oil tycoon, shipping magnate, thaumatologist and disinherited aristocrat, G. Russell feeds his senses by indulging his passions in frivolous, casual sexual encounters with anyone. He enjoys his precarious spare time breeding homunculi, tiny creatures no more than four inches high and wholly subservient to his will. He also writes late into the night and has been published everywhere. With the exception of the novel, Mini pot chanting, light opera, and fado. Well- read, erudite, suave, strikingly handsome, and much sought after by discerning women with gargantuan sexual appetites. He is availiable for discrete perversions, but remains happily married.
 
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